The creaking of these ancient boards;
an echo of a thousand previous footsteps.
A cold wind rattles the glass door pane,
as a sigh seeps through the cracked wood
creating a tune so mournful, the devil
himself could not have played it better.
Years of dust covers the furniture, left
behind by those who are no more.
A remnant of a life lived in poverty
and want. Of need and unmet desire.
Mice, skitter across the floor
and the house now settles.